


shatter those cold bones

by philthestone



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst, F/M, but he's kind of half frozen poor guy, esb angst I live for this crap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 16:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4269612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something about the fact that her godsdamned smile, the one she rarely gives but he'd coaxed out of her that one time where her lips curled upwards and her cheeks dimpled and her teeth flashed - that <em>that's</em> the image at the forefront of his mind when he's stuck in the middle of krething nowhere half frozen to death and trying to believe that Luke's going to wake up in the morning, blue-tinged lips and all - </p><p>Well, <em>kriff</em>, but isn't his life just a scene out of a pathetic holodrama, just then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shatter those cold bones

**Author's Note:**

> Empire Strikes Back missing scene angst, mostly trashy, but anyway this is needed.
> 
> You know, for having spent the whole night in a frozen wasteland, Han looked pretty good in that medicenter.
> 
> Reviews are Harrison Ford's floofy hair. I aspire to achieve that level of hair game.

He admits to himself – _himself,_ and no one else – that there is absolutely nothing at all he would like more at this particular moment in time than to collapse in a heap face-first on his bunk and _sleep_ for the next twenty-four timeparts.

After a shower.

With real, actual water.

Preferably _warm._

Somehow, though, between hauling the Kid in on a stretcher and yelling at three different deck officers and two medidroids and watching them fill the bacta tank and someone draping a thermaquilt blanket over his shoulders haphazardly and making sure that the stupid idiot that has somehow become his best friend is going to _live,_ showers and beds and warmth in general is mostly forgotten.

What feels like hours later (the whole morning a disoriented blur of _cold_ and _tired_ and dwindling adrenaline), he leans against the wall of the hallway outside Echo Base's pitiful medicenter, trying to ignore the ache in his limbs. _Gods,_ but this kriffing planet is _pathetically_ cold, and he’s hoping he’s not started shivering yet because that would be embarrassing and really, all he needs is a hot shower and probably some caf that’s not actually caf but mostly whiskey, and like _hell_ is he going to let them use bacta up on him when the Kid’s half-dead and he’s _perfectly fine_.

The door beside him opens and he starts ( _dammit_ ), elbow slamming into the icy wall behind him. 

She stands there, for a moment – no more than two seconds, really – not saying anything. Her skin is paler than it was the last time he saw her and there are bruises under her eyes and her braid has loosened, and when her lips part, ever so slightly, his bleary vision catches the cracks in them, the tiny spot at the corner where the skin has bled and dried. 

She looks as krething beat up exhausted as he _feels._

(He hadn’t been speaking to her when he left. He hadn’t _wanted_ to.) 

( _Dammitdammitdammitgods_ damnit –) 

He straightens up against the wall and tries for a game smile, ignoring the way his arms and legs feel like someone’s injected them with lead, the lingering numbness in his fingertips. 

“Luke’s gonna be fine – they’ve got him in bacta and his heart rate’s come back up to normal, so –” he takes a deep breath and pretends that he isn’t two seconds away from sinking down to the floor and passing out asleep right there – “so you shouldn’t – you don’t need to worry, or anything. He’s fine.” 

She nods, taking a step forward. It’s jerky and small, like she didn’t mean to do it but did it anyway, and he realizes he’s rambling three seconds after he starts, but his mouth doesn’t seem to want to listen to his brain anymore. 

“I mean he’s a pretty resilient kid, right? He’ll make it out better’n new and he’ll laugh at us for worryin’ about his sorry ass, so you should probably go – go sleep, or somethin’, cause I’ve been – I mean you look – kinda like hell, your Worship –” 

She takes another step forward and her hands shoot out and he’s so tired that he doesn’t even have the presence of mind to wonder what she’s doing or realize that his voice has died in his throat before her fingers slip over his shoulders and tug at the edges of the thermal blanket, pulling it down over his arms and straightening it. Her small hands are gloved and deliberate as they smooth the rumples out from the sides of the quilt, pulling it up higher and causing it to brush the bottoms of his ears. She’s standing so close now he could lean down and press his cold, chapped lips against her forehead. 

“You look cold,” she tells his chest, fingers playing with the hem of the blanket. “Your cheeks are still too red, and you've probably - I mean, you can't always tell if it's frostbite until you -" ( _inhale)_ "Maybe you should ask for something –” 

“’M fine,” he says automatically. “I’m alright.” 

She shakes her head. “You were out there all night and I doubt you got much sleep at all so you should really –” 

“Leia.” She looks up at him, finally, the skin around her eyes pinched and tight, her hands stilling against his chest. “I’m okay.” 

She nods. Her eyes are even bigger up close, liquid brown and framed by those thick lashes and they look so tired and fragile, like they’re just barely holding back from shattering. He feels his chest tighten and his voice won’t come out even though he tries his damndest – 

_(imsorryimsorryidontwanttohurtyouimsososorryyoudontdeservethis –)_

“I –” 

And then her arms have found their way around his ribs and suddenly she’s hugging him, so tightly that he can almost feel the strain on his breathing, face pressed against his collarbone and fingers pressing into his shoulder blades. 

(Later, he’ll blame his exhaustion for the fact that it takes him a moment to respond, to hug her back, to let his cheek drop against her hair and to let his hands press against her back. The corridor is cold and his legs are starting to burn he’s been standing so long but her arms are warm around his torso and her cheek is soft against his chest and her hair smells like it always does, like those Alderaanian jasmine flowers and he doesn’t even know what she uses that has that smell but it drives him insane. Or, well, more than he usually is, anyway, and gods but all he wants to do is just stand there forever and hold her and never let go and _damn_ but everything is so shit-awful unfair –) 

She pulls away and inhales sharply, clenching her fists at her sides. He can feel himself sway a little when she steps back, the edge of the stupid blanket slipping down his shoulder again. 

He can’t leave her like this, he _can’t –_

“Hey, Princess,” he manages, and she shakes her head and bites her lip, the weak, shaky smile that comes out more telling than a thousand caustic insults. He grins back, tired and lopsided, and she looks at him for a moment, almost expectant. His eyes don't leave her face but he can almost visualize her weight being shifted to the tips of her toes, _waiting_. 

( _“I thought you said you were going to stay?”)_

And then: 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers (and he wonders, _can’t stop wondering,_ what the hell exactly _she_ should be sorry for ‘cause she’s not done a damn thing other than make him fall in love with her and gods he just wants to –) “I should go. To get – I should go. Get some rest, Han.” 

She hesitates in turning. 

_That’s your opening_ , he thinks, and feels the words stick in his throat. 

_(IloveyouIloveyouIloveyoupleaseknowthat)_

The flash of hurt in her eyes is barely visible in the bad lighting of the corridor and he wonders, pressing his lips together and swallowing against his parched throat and watching as her back faces him and she walks down the hallway with her short deliberate strides, how those eyes, those beautiful liquid-brown too-big eyes, haven’t shattered yet. 

_(You’re a krething undeserving bastard, Solo, you know that?)_

He feels his knees finally give out and he has to lean against the wall for support, his forehead pressed against the ice. It’s cool and numbing and he decides that he’ll feel better after a hot shower and maybe forget the caf, just straight whiskey, and hates himself for not running after her. 

(Barely hours later, he _will_ run – he’ll run to her through a collapsing Rebel base, shards of ice and chunks of snow raining down from above, the demons biting at their heels chasing them through the crumbling hallways to his ship. Later, he’ll wrap _his_ arms around _her_ , pushing her down to the floor and covering her as half the kriffing roof falls on top of them. Later, he’ll feel her small hands in his and lean down to press his lips against her forehead, just as simple as he’d imagined. And later, much, _much_ later, he’ll look into her eyes and pray – to what he doesn’t know, but godsdammit _he is praying_ – that they hold, that they don’t shatter, that she keeps on going without him, because this time when the cold seeps into his bones and bites at his skin, he isn’t sure he’s going to survive to feel her too-tight embrace.) 


End file.
